Covert One 5 - The Lazarus Vendetta (25 page)

“It may be possible,” Smith admitted slowly. He took the disk.
“But I'll have to find a connection for my computer first.”

The older man smiled openly now. “Then you'll be pleased to hear that
our hosts have access to a wireless Internet node. This charming hacienda may
date back to the seventeenth century, but its owners' business sense is very firmly
rooted in our modern age.” Peter pushed his chair back and stood up.
“And now I'm sure you'd like some privacy, so like a good little guard dog
I'll go and prowl around the rest of the grounds.” Jon watched him go,
shaking his head in hopeless admiration at the

Englishman's ability to get what he wanted from almost
anybody. “Peter Howell could con a tribe of cannibals into turning
vegetarian,” CIA officer Randi Russell, a mutual friend of theirs, had
once told him. “And probably persuade them to pay him for the
privilege.”

Still amused, Smith dialed Fred Klein's number on his encrypted cell phone.

“Yes, Colonel,” the head of Covert-One said.

Smith relayed Peter's request for help in identifying the dead gunman.
“I've got the disk with the photos and fingerprints right here,” he
finished.

“What does Howell know?” Klein asked.

“About me? He hasn't asked,” Smith said
forcefully. “Peter is sure that I'm working for Army Intelligence, or one
of the other Pentagon outfits, but he's not pushing for specifics.”

“Good,” Klein said. He cleared his throat. “All right, Jon,
send me the files, and I'll see what we can dig up. Can you stay on where you
are? This could take a while.”

Smith looked around the quiet, restful terrace. The sun was high enough now
to provide some real warmth. And the sweet scent of flowers hung in the fresh
air. He signaled the waitress for another pot of coffee. “No sweat,
Fred,” he said into the phone with an easy, relaxed drawl. “I'll just
sit here and suffer.”

■

The head of Covert-One called back within the hour. He didn't waste time in
pleasantries. “We have a serious problem, Colonel,” he said grimly.

Smith saw Peter Howell hovering around the door out onto the patio and
motioned him over. “Go ahead,” he told Klein. “I'm all
ears.”

“The man you shot was an American, a man named Michael Dolan. He was
ex-U.S. Army Special Forces. A decorated combat veteran.
He left the service as a captain five years ago.”

“Shit,” Jon said softly.

“Oh, it gets worse, Colonel,” Klein cautioned him. “Once he
got out of the Army, Michael Dolan applied for admission to the FBI Academy
at Quantico.
They turned him down outright.”

“Why?” Smith wondered aloud. Ex-military officers were often in
high demand by the FBI, which valued their skills, physical fitness, and
disciplined outlook on life.

“He failed the Academy psychological evaluation,” Klein told him
quietly. “Apparently, he showed clear traces of sociopathic tendencies and
attitudes. The Bureau profilers noted a distinct willingness to kill, without
significant compunction or remorse.”

“Not exactly someone you would really want carrying a law-enforcement
badge and a weapon, I guess,” Smith said. “No,” Klein agreed.

“Okay, the FBI didn't want him,” Smith pressed. “Then who did
take him on? How did he wind up involved in the Lazarus Movement?”

“There we begin to come to the heart of our serious problem,” the
head of Covert-One said slowly. “It appears that the late and unlamented
Mr. Dolan worked for the CIA.”

“Jesus.” Smith shook his head in disbelief. “Langley hired this guy?” “Not
officially,” Klein replied. “The Agency rather wisely seems to have
kept him at arm's length. On paper, Dolan was employed as an independent
security consultant. But his paychecks were funneled through a number of CIA
fronts. He's worked for them on and off since leaving the Army, mostly
conducting high-risk counterterror operations, usually in Latin America or Africa.”

“Cute. So Langley
could always deny that he was one of theirs if an op went sour,” Smith realized,
frowning. “Exactly,” Klein said.

“And was Dolan on the CIA payroll last night?” Smith asked
tightly, wondering just how much trouble they were in right now. Was that
fire-fight last night the result of some total foul-up —a horrible incident of

friendly fire between two clandestine outfits
operating in the same area without adequate communication?

“No, I don't think so,” the head of Covert-One told him. “My
best guess is that his last paid contract from the Agency ended a little more
than six months ago.”

Smith felt the rigid muscles of his face relax a tiny bit. He breathed out.
“I'm glad to hear that. Damned glad.”

“There is more, Colonel,” Fred Klein warned. He cleared his
throat. “The information I've just relayed comes from our own Covert-One database—a
set of files I've built up using highly classified material siphoned from the
CIA, the FBI, the NSA, and other agencies. Without their
knowledge, of course.”

Smith nodded to himself. Klein's ability to pull together information from
the several competing factions in the U.S. intelligence community was one of
the reasons President Castilla put such a high value on Covert-One's work.

“As a cross-check, I ran the pictures and fingerprints you sent me
through both the CIA and the FBI databases,” Klein went on. His voice was
flat and cold. “But both searches came back empty-handed. So far as Langley and the Bureau
are concerned, Michael Dolan never took the FBI exam and never worked for the
CIA. In fact, their records do not mention him at all.”

“What?” Smith exclaimed suddenly. He saw Peter raise an eyebrow in
surprise and hurriedly lowered his voice. “That's impossible!”

“Not impossible,” Klein told him quietly. “Merely
improbable. And very frightening.”

'Tou mean the CIA and FBI files have been scrubbed,“ Smith realized. He
felt a shiver run down his spine. ”Which is something
that could only be done by people operating at a very high level. People in our own government."

“I'm afraid so, Colonel,” Klein agreed. "Clearly, someone has
taken

enormous risks to erase those records. So now the
questions we have to ask are, Why? And who?"

Hidden Nanotechnology Production Facility, Inside the Center

The technicians working inside the nanophage production core wore full
protective suits, each with its own self-contained air supply. Thick gloves and
the heavy suits slowed every movement and robbed them of much of their
dexterity. Nevertheless, harsh training and intensive practice helped each man
perform the delicate task of loading hundreds of billions of fully formed Stage
III nanophages into four small, thick-walled metal cylinders.

As the cylinders were filled, they were slowly and carefully disconnected
from the stainless steel production vats. Technicians working in pairs clamped
the cylinders onto robotic carts designed to ferry them through a narrow
tunnel—sealed at both ends by massive air locks—and out into another sealed
chamber. There another team of technicians wearing masks, gloves, and coveralls
took charge of the deadly cargo.

One by one, the nanophage-filled canisters were loaded into larger hollow
metal tanks, which were carefully sealed and then welded shut. Once this work
was finished, these larger metal tanks were stacked in a foam-padded heavy-duty
shipping crate. As a last step, large white and red labels were stuck all over
the crate: APPROVISIONNEMENTS MEDICAUX DE L'OXYGENE. AVERTISSEMENT: CONTENU
SOUS PRESSION!

The tall, powerfully built man who called himself Nones stood outside the
production core, watching through the multiple layers of a sealed observation
window as the loading proceeded. He turned his head toward the much shorter
senior scientist beside him. “Will this new delivery system of yours yield
the increased effectiveness our employer demands?”

The scientist nodded emphatically. 'Absolutely. We
have designed the Stage Three nanophages with a longer life span and for a much
wider range of external conditions. Our new method takes advantage of those

design improvements—allowing us to conduct this
next field test from much higher altitudes and in more variable weather. Our
computer modeling predicts significantly more efficient dispersion of the
nanophages as a result."

“And substantially higher kill rates?” Nones, the third of the Horatii,
asked bluntly.

The scientist nodded reluctantly. “Of course.”
He swallowed hard. “I doubt that very many people in the target area will
survive.”

“Good.” The green-eyed man smiled coldly. “After all, that is
the point of all this new technology of yours, isn't it?”

PART THREE

Shinjuku Ward, Tokyo

As a multinational corporation worth nearly $50 billion, Nomura Pharma-Tech
owned factories, laboratories, and warehouse facilities all around the world,
but it still retained a substantial presence in Japan. The company's Tokyo-based
complex occupied a forty-acre campus located in the very heart of the sprawling
city's Shinjuku Ward. Three identical skyscrapers held administrative offices
and science labs for Nomura's thousands of dedicated employees. At night, Tokyo's vivid, shimmering
neon lights were reflected by each tower's mirrored facade—turning them into
jeweled pillars on which the city's night sky rested. But the rest of the
campus was a peaceful rural setting of forested parkland, flowing streams, and
restful pools. During his tenure as CEO and chairman, Jinjiro Nomura, Hideo's
father, had insisted on creating an oasis of natural beauty, peace, and
tranquillity around his corporate headquarters —no matter how much it cost his
company or its shareholders.

Three main gates controlled access to the walled compound. From

each gate tree-lined paths and service roads fed
pedestrian, auto, and truck traffic to one of the three towers.

Mitushara Noda had worked for Nomura PharmaTech for all of his adult life.
Over the course of twenty-five years, the short, spare man with a passion for
order and routine had risen steadily, if unspectacularly, from the post of
junior nightshirt watchman to that of Gate Three security supervisor. The work
was equally steady and equally unspectacular. Apart from making sure his guards
checked employee badges, Noda's day consisted largely of making sure that shipments of food, office supplies, and lab chemicals
arrived on time and were directed to the proper loading dock. Before beginning
any shift, he always arrived early just so he could spend the time he needed to
memorize the scheduled arrivals, departures, and loads for every vehicle slated
to pass through his gate during the next eight hours.

That was why the unexpected sound of a heavy tractor-trailer truck shifting
its gears noisily as it turned off the main road brought Mitsuhara Noda rushing
out of his small office at the gatehouse. By his calculations, no shipments of
any kind were due to arrive for at least another two hours and twenty-five
minutes. The little man's black brows were furrowed as he watched the huge rig
draw nearer, engine roaring as it steadily picked up speed.

Behind him, several of the other security guards whispered nervously to one
another, wondering aloud what they should do. One unsnapped the holster at his
side, readying his pistol for a quick draw.

Noda's eyes narrowed. The access road through Gate Three led directly to the
tower dedicated to Nomura PharmaTech's nanotechnology research efforts. Several
security circulars were posted in his office warning all company employees
about the threats made by the Lazarus Movement. And there were no corporate
markings on either the trailer or the cab of this fast-approaching truck.

He made a decision. “Lower the gate!” he snapped. “Hoshiko,
phone the main office and report a possible security incident.”

Noda stepped right out into the road, signaling the driver of the oncoming
truck to stop. Behind him, a solid steel pole swung down with a shrill
electrical whine and locked in place. The other guards fumbled for their
weapons.

But the truck kept coming. Its gears screamed as the big engine revved
higher, accelerating to more than forty miles an hour. Unable for a moment to
believe what he was seeing, the little gate supervisor stood his ground, still
frantically waving his arms as he shouted for the big rig to halt.

Through the tinted windshield he caught a momentary glimpse of the man
behind the wheel. There was no expression on the driver's face, no sign of
recognition in his glassy, unseeing eyes. A kamikaze! Noda realized in horror.

Far too late, he turned to run.

The front end of the huge truck slammed into him with lethal force,
shattering every bone in his upper body. Unable even to force a scream out of
his ruptured lungs, he was hurled backward against the steel pole. The impact
snapped his spine in half. Noda was already dead when the truck crashed
straight through the gate amid the high-pitched shriek of rending metal.

Two of the shocked security guards reacted fast enough to open fire. But
their pistol shots only ricocheted off the big rig's improvised armor plating
and bulletproof windows. The truck kept going, roaring deeper into the wooded
Nomura complex, racing straight for the tall mirrored lower containing the
company's Tokyo
nanotech research facility.

Scarcely one hundred yards from the skyscraper's main entrance, the speeding
tractor-trailer crashed head-on into a row of massive steel-and-concrete
barriers hurriedly deployed by the company after the terrorist attack on the
Teller Institute. Huge pieces of broken concrete flew away from the point of
impact, but the barriers held.

The big rig jackknifed and then exploded.

An enormous orange and red fireball roared high into the air. The

shock wave smashed windows all across the front of
the lab complex. Knife-edge shards of glass cascaded onto the pavements and
lawns far below. Bomb-mangled pieces of the truck and trailer were blown
through a wide arc—tearing jagged holes in the steel fabric of the building and
toppling trees in the surrounding groves.